Help
by MrLRocks78
Summary: ONE-SHOT. After a horrible, Cupcakes-like attack, Mr. L has been left with barely any life left. Dimentio, being his best friend, naturally comes to visit him in the hospital. But who is the real culprit behind the Green Thunder's attack?


_One, two, three..._

The sting of the slight wind tugs on his collar. He shrugs it off and reaches out a hand. It is his right hand, identical to the left. Both swathed in a black glove. Slightly worn from work, or maybe singed is the right word. Torn at the end. So small it's barely visible. The hand lays itself down on the cold steel of the doorknob. It's not round, it's longish. He presses down. The knob goes down, easy-peasy. With a little jingle courtesy of the bells strung up in the interior's rafters, he enters.

_Four, five, six..._

The smells and sounds hit him with all the force of a train. A runaway train. The dim fluorescent lights blare his vision, and he uses the same hand he used to open the door to shield his eyes from the attack. The pungent smell of sickness and disease hits him. Bustling people do their thing, bustling and bumping and generally adding to the usual chaos of the interior of the hospital. For that is what he has walked into. A hospital.

_Seven, eight, nine..._

He brushes off the horrible noises and lets his hand - his arm - fall. His arm falls, because of gravity, and because he wishes it to fall, and because it just _does _and it just _happens _like that. Mother Nature is strange like that, letting the arm fall and not keeping it up or reverting it back to its original position it started out with. But then that would leave it powerless, useless, to the being it serves, and then the arm would, in turn, serve no purpose, and what would be the purpose of keeping it?

_Ten, eleven, twelve..._

But getting rid of the arm? It would be a whole different story. For this body has dealt with pain, oh yes, but it hurts, pain hurts. And then the blood would all come rushing out, and the heart would pump double time, and then the scream would erupt from his mouth and echo all around the room he would be in. And getting rid of the arm would be gruesome and it would require will. A lot a lot a lot of will, oh yes, will is everything, it is all, it is almighty, all powerful.

_Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen..._

He propels himself gently off the tiled floor. The floor's cold pressure disappears as he takes to the air, but only an inch above the ground. He defies gravity, he controls gravity, time, space, dimensions, he is the master, master of all dimensions. He floats because it is easier, and he can, and because he does, and because he wants to, and he wants to let go of the pain, let it all go.

_Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen..._

He floats to the counter, the counter messily painted over with an icky green. The green reminds him of a better green, the green of the fabric of the clothes worn by his friend. His best friend, of all time. And he is here because of his friend. And it is because of his friend, the friend who wears green, that he places his gloved hands he uses all the time and uses his eyes to look squarely into the dull eyes of the woman behind the messily painted counter in an icky green colour.

_Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one..._

He opens his mouth, uses his words, and his voice flows out of his mouth like music. The woman obeys his wishes, his requests, his commands, and gives him directions. Directions to the place, the place of his friend, the place where his friend rests. He nods his head, the hat tips on his hat bobbing and swaying like flowers in the sun, in the spring sun and swinging lazily in an equally lazy breeze.

_Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four..._

He goes, he moves, and he follows the dull-eyed woman's directions, because he needs to know where to go, and he doesn't want to teleport, and he wants to think and delay his meeting with his green-wearing friend because his friend is hurt and he doesn't want to see his friend hurt and it hurts him just as bad. He goes up in the elevator, the boring dull music like the woman's eyes just playing and playing and it's dull and boring.

_Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven..._

The elevator stops, the dull music stops with it, and the doors that are steel and cold the doors open. He floats through them, and he ignores the swarm of people doing their thing, which is swarming into the elevator and the elevator clangs shut. The door is shut and there is a strange noise and the people disappear. He gulps because he is nervous and then he summons his courage and continues floating along the corridor. It smells horrible, and it's tiled and all, but he doesn't register this because he is more scared of the thing ahead, the ultimate, the only, the one, his friend in green.

_Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty..._

The counting, oh the counting helps, and he continues floating along the long smelly corridor looking at the worn numbers on the doors. That's counting too, counting up, and he counts up until he finds his friend's room, well not exactly, the room his friend resides in after the attack the attack that _he _did the attack is all his fault all his fault and he goes to the door and doesn't register the number just _knows _that his friend is in there. And he places his hand on the doorknob which is warm and round this time and he hesitates because he's scared of what's on the other side.

_Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three..._

He pulls himself together but not literally but maybe his friend in green must pull himself together literally because of the attack and he doesn't think about that because it's all _his _fault. He summons his courage again and again and he feels a little better thinking of his other friend the girl friend with green skin and who likes wearing dresses and she gives him courage and he turns his hand and the door swings open.

_Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six..._

Oh no oh no oh no oh no it's worse it's bad badder than he expected and he doesn't turn away but oh is it bad it's really really really bad bad bad bad bad all his fault bad bad bad oh no what if the Count found out but he already knows the whole entire world knows that it's all his fault and it's bad bad bad oh no and Jaydes knows and Grambi and oh no oh no he's doomed doomed doomed bye bye world is this what he was thinking bad bad bad.

_Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine..._

The one on the bed his friend he stares at him and he's scared and he hovers there in the doorway and his friend but he's not his friend anymore oh no oh no oh no Grambi help him this is bad bad bad all his fault fault fault yes yes must hide evidence he can't know no-one must know it's his fault and he lunges and the friend who's not a friend he looks scared all of a sudden and he attacks and the not-friend's friend reaches for a button near his bed and he presses it and he attacks and he summons magic and he throws it and it misses and the not-friend is yelling for help.

_FORTY FORTY-ONE FORTY-TWO FOUR __FIVE SIX TWENTY SEVENTY-EIGHT NO NO NO BAD BAD BAD_

"Help..."


End file.
